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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28735779">keep your head up, hold your head up (even though it's a cruel world)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flowerparrish/pseuds/Flowerparrish'>Flowerparrish</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>going down fighting [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Old Guard (Movie 2020)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Aftermath of Psychological Torture, Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Dissociation, Fix-It of Sorts, Found Family, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, POV Alternating, detachment from reality</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 13:00:56</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>12,698</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28735779</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flowerparrish/pseuds/Flowerparrish</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Nile doesn’t have time to say anything further, though, before Nicky is snatching the gun from Andy’s grip and leveling it on her in turn.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Don’t,” he warns, and he sounds crazed. Feral. Like a forest fire barely contained, anger burning white hot and tempting him to raze everything in his path. “Non farlo, sorella.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“We have to go,” Andy tells him evenly. “What would you not do, to keep him out of their hands?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Nicky is furious for a moment more before all of the tension slumps out of him. He passes the gun back and hefts Joe up over his shoulder. How he has the strength, Nile literally can’t imagine. Her arms are almost shaking from the strain of just holding up a gun for so long. “Then let us go.”</p>
<p> </p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>going down fighting [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2085570</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>51</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>154</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kh530/gifts">Kh530</a>, <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/kbirb/gifts">kbirb</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is a fix-it, because SOMEONE had to write torture and didn't?? intend?? to fix it?? Which cannot stand. Fix-its are my lifeblood. Therefore: this. </p>
<p>That said, it's like... obviously gonna suck for them at first. Don't worry. I don't intend to leave anyone suffering. The purpose of this story is healing. </p>
<p>I am not sure yet how many chapters this is going to be, but ch 2 is already written. I'll be posting that next week. I can't guarantee a consistent update schedule, but it will be finished.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>James Copley is a man with a unique grasp on morality: he knows this.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>He has always tried to leave the world a better place than he found it—</span>
  <em>
    <span>tried </span>
  </em>
  <span>being the operative word. But often solutions aren’t clean-cut, and very little in this world is entirely good or evil.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Copley sees the world in shades of gray but acts with the decisiveness of someone who sees it in black and white, good and bad, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>that </span>
  </em>
  <span>is where his unique grasp on morality comes in.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Copley would not be able to sleep at night if he did not accept that attempting to do good on the scale he does means that sometimes, you fuck up spectacularly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>The problem with this is that often, when Copley fucks up, people die. And that’s something he has learned to accept, albeit grudgingly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>So when Copley gets it in his head to end human suffering after watching the other half of his </span>
  <em>
    <span>heart </span>
  </em>
  <span>lose everything that made living bearable, well... He doesn’t much care what he has to sacrifice to that end.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>He realizes, months later, that this was a mistake. That this may have been the moment when his dubious grip on morality crossed a line.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Or maybe he crossed it before then, and this was just a result of that.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>It matters little, when the reality now is this: Copley found a group of immortals, and then he found their weakest link. He used the man to capture the rest.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>His job is done. He’s a rich man, but he was already a rich man—the money is not the point. The point is that he gets to </span>
  <em>
    <span>see </span>
  </em>
  <span>the scientific advances being made that are because of </span>
  <em>
    <span>his </span>
  </em>
  <span>work.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Merrick, graciously, allows Copley to visit and receive updates on the research.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>This is where things start to get… complex. Not in the way Copley is used to, complex in shades of gray, but complex in that Merrick might actually be evil, and what does it say about Copley that it took him this long to notice that?</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>They are being tested, yes. But they are also being </span>
  <em>
    <span>tortured, </span>
  </em>
  <span>which is a distinction Copley can now clearly distinguish.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>He goes home, and he drinks, and he prays to his wife to forgive him. When he wakes up with a pounding headache and no answers, he remembers that faith is only worth so much in this world where changes are made through free will, through direct action.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>And so Copley begins to plan.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>The real trick is making sure they have access to the things he needs them to get before he dies. He’ll have to sneak them in on his own person.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Merrick’s security checks Copley, of course, but never as cautiously as they would someone who they thought might actually be a threat. It’s cursory at best, upholding their security standards but not really taking it seriously.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>This will work in Copley’s favor.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I want to meet the girl,” he tells Merrick one visit.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why?” Merrick asks, looking truly baffled. Like he can’t imagine why Copley isn’t satisfied with data and numbers and scientific developments, but wants to instead see Merrick’s valued test subjects as </span>
  <em>
    <span>people.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Copley keeps the disgust off of his face. He’s at fault here, too; he is in no position to throw stones. “She’s the only one I don’t know anything about. Nothing but her military file, at least. Call it intellectual curiosity.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>He feels nervous and lets it show, knowing this might help his case. It will make Merrick feel powerful, and men like Steven Merrick like nothing more than to feel in control.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>After a too-long silence that proves Copley right—Merrick just wants to soak in the way Copley’s eyes won’t quite meet his gaze, fingers twitching a bit at his sides—he says, “Alright. I’ll set something up next month when you visit.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Thank you,” Copley makes sure to say.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>So he has a month to plan. A part of him feels it is too long to leave these people—because they are, they’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>people, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he knows each of them so intimately despite having barely met all but one, and yet somehow he forgot the value of a single person’s life—in Merrick’s greedy, sadistic clutches. But the larger part of Copley is an agent, is a man who knows how to calculate and plan and weigh a cost-benefit analysis even when the cost is people’s lives. This part of Copley knows that he will need this entire month to scheme and gets to work.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  
</p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>When Copley climbs out of his car in front of Merrick’s labs a month later, he has an envelope tucked down his pants and a pocket knife in his shoe. It’s all he can risk; it’ll have to be enough.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>They greet him at the door, pat him down but don’t bother to do anything more than that. The envelope, safely tucked between Copley’s groin and the stomach he’s developed from too much alcohol and too many years behind a desk, goes unnoticed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>One hurdle passed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Copley knows he is going to die here. He has accepted that—perhaps more easily than he should.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>He always thought he would find his way back to the CIA, maybe, or just intelligence work in general. His goal was always to change the world.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>In rescuing these people, he will be doing that. They’ll change the world for the better more than he ever could; it’s what they’ve been doing as far back as he can find records, and what he’s sure they’ll keep doing once they’re free.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s Copley who stole them from a world that needed them, and he’ll have to die knowing that </span>
  <em>
    <span>this </span>
  </em>
  <span>is his lasting impact on this Earth.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>As he walks with the armed guards to the labs, he makes his peace with this knowledge. He will be with his wife soon—wherever that may be—and that is what matters most to him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Maybe, he realizes too late, his priorities were never quite what they should have been.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>They take him to a room off of the main labs. There is an exam table and a sink, a row of cabinets above it. There’s a chair off to the side, but Copley leans against a wall casually.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>The guards leave him alone until the girl is brought in.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Her wrists are cuffed and so are her ankles; that’s okay, Copley has a lock-picking set down his other shoe. “Corporal Freeman,” he greets, and then turns to the guards. “Give us some time?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>The men look uncomfortable. “We can’t—” one starts to say, but Copley raises an eyebrow.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I can keep myself perfectly safe,” he assures them. “It’s not like she’s got a gun.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>After a few more uncomfortable moments, the guard in charge caves. “We’ll be right outside the door.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Thank you, gentlemen.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>The door clicks shut, and Nile stands in the room, chin angled down but jaw tense. He sees her eyes dart around, looking for a weapon, and he thinks: </span>
  <em>
    <span>good. </span>
  </em>
  <span>They haven’t broken her spirit yet.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>He reaches down and pulls the lock picks out of his shoe. “I’m going to get you out of here,” he tells her. “But I need you to stay quiet. Please.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Her eyes narrow and she spits at his feet. There’s blood mixed in with the saliva. “If you touch me—” she starts to threaten, and Copley sighs.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, yes,” he cuts her off. “You’ll kill me. Fine. There’s a pocket knife in my other boot.” He detours from his plan to uncuff her long enough to pull the documents free, setting them on the exam table. “These will help you escape. The IDs all have backgrounds, paper trails. It’ll take a long time to discover them as fakes, and by then you and the others can be far away.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nile’s gaze is sharp when she finally meets his eyes. “Are you serious?” she asks.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why would I be here if not?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Her eyes are suspicious when she responds. “To give me hope.” </span>
  <em>
    <span>And then take it away.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m serious,” he promises her. “I can’t prove it. There’s no way to find out until you try. But please, Corporal Freeman. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Try. </span>
  </em>
  <span>You’ll never get free if you give up the fight.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Who are you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“James Copley. Ex-CIA.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>She holds out her hands so he can work on disengaging the cuffs. “How did you know about us?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I discovered them. I turned them in.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>She narrows her eyes. “Booker did that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And who do you think got to him?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>The cuffs snap free, and she rears back and punches him in the face. It’s solid; his head snaps back and he bites back the cry he almost lets out from surprise. “That’s fair,” he gasps, nose definitely broken and blood falling down across his lips.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’ll be the last thing he tastes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s always hated irony.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fuck you,” she says. “You think helping us now means anything?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I hope it means just enough,” he tells her honestly. He gestures at the table. “Hide those. Sit down. Let me get the chains around your ankles.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>She huffs and rolls her eyes, the most attitude he’s seen from her. She’s so fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>young, </span>
  </em>
  <span>isn’t she?</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>His wife would be so disappointed in him. He may not have turned this girl over personally, but she is here because of him just as much as the others are.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“There’s a duffel bag out back by the trash. It has clothes for all of you. And… I’m sorry,” he tells her. It is the only moment of weakness, of sincerity, he allows himself to show.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>The moment passes. He hands her the knife. “Get in position on the other side of the door. I’m going to shout for help and attack them when they come in. They’ll probably shoot me, but you should be able to finish them off before they can raise the alarm. And… good luck.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>She doesn’t grant him more than a glance and a curt nod to show she understands.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>He accepts that this is all he is going to get from her and moves to stand off to the side of the doorway. “Help!” he calls, injecting panic into his voice. “Help!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>The door bursts open moments later, a gun the first thing through. Copley is on the man before he has time to register what looks to him to be an empty room. Copley wrests the weapon away and shoots the man down, shooting the next before he can notice Nile. The third raises his hand to his ear, to a comm, and Copley shoots his hand first and his head second.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>All three lay dead on the floor and Copley tilts his head in consideration. “I’m quicker than I thought I’d be,” he comments. He kicks a second gun over to Nile, takes the extra clips he can find and passes those over too. “Ready?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>She nods. There’s a strength to her posture that had been absent; she looks purposeful now that there’s a gun in her hands. “Do you know how to get to where the others are kept?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>He tells her, briefly. Most of them in the labs on this floor. Nicolò on the twelfth floor near security so the feeds can be more easily looped to the monitors they taunt him with. Yusuf in the basement.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Cover me,” she says, and she goes first.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>He would doubt the wisdom of her allowing him at her back when she doesn’t trust him, but after he sees her shake off the first bullet, he figures that not much can keep her down now that she’s got a weapon and free use of her limbs.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>James Copley dies before they make it to the others; he dies giving Nile time to use a keycard they stole off a dead body to get into the lab where Andromache and Booker are kept.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>The last thing he sees is Nile bursting into the room, blood stains and bullet holes in her hospital clothes. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Good luck, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he thinks again, and then he knows only darkness.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  
</p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nile sees Copley go down and doesn’t spare him a second thought. She’ll sort out her feelings about all of this later. Right now she doesn’t have that luxury.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>She undoes the straps holding down Andromache first, passing her a gun. “We need to </span>
  <em>
    <span>go,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>she insists. “Nicky’s on the twelfth floor. Joe’s in the basement.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>A gunshot goes off and Nile doesn’t flinch. She does glance over, now that Andy’s free, to see the doctor who’s been torturing them lying dead with the back of her skull blown open. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Good riddance.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nile starts in on Booker’s cuffs. “Leave me,” he starts.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’d fucking love to,” she snaps back. “But you got them into this mess, and now you’re going to help get them out.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>He begins undoing the rest of his cuffs himself, batting her hands away. “Go, go,” he says. “I’m right behind.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Andy takes point as they leave the room, Nile just behind her and Booker bringing up the rear. He stoops to pick up Copley’s discarded weapon, a complicated expression on his face.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn’t linger, though, so Nile doesn’t have to shoot him. She just </span>
  <em>
    <span>wants </span>
  </em>
  <span>to. Ugh.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>They easily clear the floor; the only injury Andy sustains is a knife wound, but it’s shallow and non-fatal. Booker takes bullets for her and Nile quickly begins to do so as well; it hurts like a fucking bitch, but the good thing about the fact that she’s been tortured for…. How long has she even been here?</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Well, the bright side is that she’s pretty used to pain at this point. Now, it just makes her angrier—like some kind of Hulk.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>When they make it to the elevator, Nile suggests, “Split up?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Booker casts a look at Andy and the way she is no longer healing as they do, blood still oozing from the gash on her upper arm. “We’re stronger together.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nile wants to argue for the sake of it, but now isn’t the time. “Then we move fast.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Andy nods a quiet agreement and takes point as they leave. She’s fearless, and Nile wonders if this is because she has forgotten what it feels like to be mortal or because she just doesn’t care if she dies.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Either way, Nile hopes </span>
  <em>
    <span>she </span>
  </em>
  <span>never gets to that point.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>How old are you? </span>
  </em>
  <span>She’d asked both of them once.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Two hundred and change, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Booker had said, an inconceivable number.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Too old, </span>
  </em>
  <span>was all Andy had given her. But Nile had seen the relief in her eyes when she stopped healing, and she knew that however old Andy was, she was grateful it would be over soon.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>The doors open on floor twelve, and they resume fighting. Nile falls easily into the dance of it, learning the way these two move and matching their rhythm.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>When they find Nicky, his eyes are glued to the screens surrounding him. He glances at Andy only long enough to say, “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Yusuf</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” in the most desperate voice Nile has ever heard.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Let’s go get him.” She undoes Nicky’s restraints and passes him a gun. “Be strong, Nicolò. He needs you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nicky takes one last lingering stare at the monitors before he nods, resolve slowly creeping into his frame. “Sì,” he replies, and Nile took enough Spanish to know that for a yes, even if his accent is different than the many audio files she listened to in school. Italian, she presumes, given what little she knows of Nicky.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>He looks at her with an expression that’s almost curiosity. Surprise, maybe. He must not remember the only time they’d met. “Nile,” he says after a moment, her name sounding strange on his tongue.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes,” she confirms. “He’s in the basement.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Any lingering curiosity Nicky may harbor about her is gone in that moment. He’s out the door in a fraction of a moment, moving so quickly Nile’s eyes can barely keep up.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Andy sighs. Booker stays silent. Nile, after a second’s hesitation, follows.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>They catch up to Nicky at the elevator. He steps on and doesn’t hold the door for them, but they quickly skip inside.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Andy steps up in front of Nicky and frames his face in her hands. Her grip looks anything but gentle. “Nicolò .” She states his name firmly. “You need to keep it together until we get out of here. Promise me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Sorella,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>he starts, and she cuts him off.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No excuses. We need you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>He closes his eyes and tips his head back. “I understand.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s not a promise, and the look in Andy’s eyes says she knows it. Still, she pats Nicky’s cheek and lets him go. “You can take point.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>The look Nicky gives her is grateful even in its weariness. He says nothing, though, only nods.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>The elevator doors open with a quiet whoosh.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>They move.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There are less people to kill down here, but they’re prepared now, the alarm having gone up at some point in the last ten or so minutes. They take them down, but Andy gets grazed by a bullet and her leg is bleeding fiercely. Nile dies once and comes back just in time to see Nicky pushing into the room where Joe is being kept.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The man they find is vacant of all expression. This is the only way Nile has ever met him, of course, but it must shock the others.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Booker looks sick. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Good, </span>
  </em>
  <span>she thinks viciously. Andy looks distraught for just a moment before she wrestles her expression back into control.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nicky looks like his heart is being dissected in front of him, but also altogether unsurprised. His torture had, of course, been to watch.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>He crosses to Joe and kneels down in front of him, reaching out slowly. He speaks in rapid Italian that Nile doesn’t understand, and then another language Nile can’t even place. He cycles through a few before closing his eyes and tipping forward until his forehead is pressed against Joe’s. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Cuore mio,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>he whispers before he stands, hands gripping Joe’s and tugging him to his feet as well.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nile doesn’t expect it to work. But it… does? Joe just follows where Nicky guides him, vacant and docile.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>It makes bile rise in her throat to see this and know he was once a whole person. She wonders if he can recover from this.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Let’s move,” Andy says, and Nile takes point this time while Andy and Booker take the rear, Nicky and Joe shielded on both sides by their bodies.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>They make it all the way to the lobby where people are cowering under their desks before Joe changes. One second, nothing, and then: all at once, Joe begins to scream.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Shit,” Nile curses, but before she can do anything, the screaming cuts off.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Andy just shot Joe in the head.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fuck,” she whispers. Nile doesn’t have time to say anything further, though, before Nicky is snatching the gun from Andy’s grip and leveling it on her in turn.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t,” he warns, and he sounds crazed. Feral. Like a forest fire barely contained, anger burning white hot and tempting him to raze everything in his path. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Non farlo, sorella.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We have to </span>
  <em>
    <span>go,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Andy tells him evenly. “What would you not do, to keep him out of their hands?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nicky is furious for a moment more before all of the tension slumps out of him. He passes the gun back and hefts Joe up over his shoulder. How he has the strength, Nile literally can’t imagine. Her arms are almost shaking from the strain of just holding up a gun for so long. “Then let us go.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nile leads them out a back door and finds the backpack just where Copley said it would be. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Thanks, I guess, </span>
  </em>
  <span>she thinks at his corpse. There’s no use in praying to him; he’s definitely not in heaven, and she doesn’t know if her prayers could reach him in hell.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Come on,” Nile says, checking that the documents Copley gave her are still tucked into her waistband. They are. “Let’s get out of here before the police show up.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>A little early because chapter 3 is written and chapter 4 is planned! Enjoy &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nile, at least, knows what city they’re in. The British accents alone would have been a dead giveaway, to be sure, but Merrick and his crew also hadn’t tried to keep things from her at first. Back when the line between testing and torture was still razor thin but she was, for all intents and purposes, still a willing test subject.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nile had always liked the idea of London. Now, she thinks, it will always make her stomach curl in disgust.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>They make it out of the building and away before the cops show.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Joe has healed by now, but he’s back to being blank. Nile doesn’t know how long it will last, but she doesn’t want to push their luck. “We need a car.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Booker nods. “Wait here.” He ducks into a parking garage and they wait, Nile’s unease growing with each minute that passes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nicky is still talking to Joe, a constant stream of words Nile doesn’t have the energy to try translating. Andy is leaning against the wall, her head tilted back and her eyes closed. She would look calm if not for the way there’s a tightness in her jaw.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You good?” Nile asks her quietly, and Andy shrugs in response.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ll live,” she offers after a moment.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nile feels the overwhelming urge to punch the stone of the wall they’re huddled against. Before she can, an SUV comes out of the parking garage and stops, window rolling down. “Come on,” Booker says, voice urgent. “We need to go.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>They pile into the car and Booker takes off, driving the same speed as the traffic around them. It makes Nile twitchy, but she knows he’s right to avoid drawing undue attention. “How long do you think we’ve got?” she asks, leaning forward between the front console to look between Booker and Andy. “Before they notice it’s gone?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not long enough,” Booker says grimly. “We’ve got to get as far as we can.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nile settles back into her seat, shifting uneasily as something pokes into her stomach. It takes her a moment to realize it’s the envelope Copley had passed her, which she’d tucked into her waistband once more. She tugs it out and reads through and—</span>
  <em>
    <span>oh.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Plug this into the GPS,” she orders. Andy turns to look at her, eyes narrowed, and Nile stares back firmly. “Unless you have a better idea?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>She holds Nile’s gaze for ten more seconds before turning around. “Read it out.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>She plugs in the address and Nile continues reading Copley’s instructions. They’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>thorough, </span>
  </em>
  <span>fuck. She hopes this isn’t a trap, but then she can’t imagine the man would die to free them just to trap them once more.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Where did you get that?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nicky’s voice startles her, and she looks into the back seat of the SUV to see that Joe has fallen asleep against the window, huddled as far away from Nicky as he can get. Nicky looks worn and broken, but he somehow manages to offer Nile what she thinks is supposed to be a smile.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s not anywhere near a smile, of course, but she can appreciate the effort.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He said his name was Copley,” she tells Nicky. “Got remorseful. Helped free me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>The car jerks and Booker swears. When Nile looks up front, Booker’s hands are tight on the wheel. “Copley?” he grits out.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah,” she confirms. “Said he’s the one who found you lot.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Booker echoes, but the word is choked as it fights free from his throat. “Where is that asshole?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Dead. Covered me until just before I got to you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So I didn’t imagine that,” is all Booker says. It’s enough to chill Nile.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>They’ve already got Joe completely detached from reality. Nicky seems like he’s clinging to sanity by a thread. Andy is injured and hiding it. And now Booker, who she doesn’t like and doesn’t trust, doesn’t even trust his own senses?</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Shit. They’re so fucked.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We’re going to die,” she whispers.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nicky laughs, a sound so far from happy it eradicates any warmth left in her just to hear it. “If only.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>When they pull up to a small cottage somewhere in Wales, Nicky knows this only because he has spent time in Wales, not because he has paid attention to where they are going.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>He does not trust Booker; he would like to bury him so deep that he can never find his way to the surface and leave him to suffer.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>But Booker is following the commands of the new girl, Nile, and Nicky has no reason not to trust her.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>(Nicky has no option </span>
  <em>
    <span>but </span>
  </em>
  <span>to trust her.)</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nicky would be lying if he said his every thought was not disjointed, interspersed and frequently interrupted by a mantra of </span>
  <em>
    <span>YusufYusufYusuf </span>
  </em>
  <span>and </span>
  <em>
    <span>cuore mio </span>
  </em>
  <span>and </span>
  <em>
    <span>destati, destati, per favore, amore mio, destati.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>He does not pray, because he cannot believe that a higher power would allow this to happen. Surely humanity would have been razed before this point if a being of divine benevolence existed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>It has not been, and so there must be none.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>He does not pray, but he </span>
  <em>
    <span>pleads. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He does not plead that Yusuf wake up from his sleep, but rather from whatever his mind has done in an attempt to keep him safe.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>If it kept him safe, Nicolò cannot regret it. Even if it makes his heart unreachable to him, even if it feels as if he is still being tormented even though they are so far from those people and many of them lie dead in pools of their own blood—</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Come back to me. </span>
  </em>
  <span>That is what Nicolò pleads.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>He does not know what he will do if Yusuf does not head his plea.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>He cannot die, but without his heart, he cannot </span>
  <em>
    <span>live.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>A hand touches his shoulder, and Nicky jolts. He realizes, all at once, that the car has stopped. Nile has exited the car, and he follows the hand on his shoulder to see Booker leaning in. “Nic—” he starts.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Booker pulls his arm back and nods. “If you need help with him—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I won’t.” Nicky has never heard his voice sound so cold, not even in the early days when he believed he was on a divine mission from his God to kill the devils who had taken their holy land. Not even when he killed Yusuf, and Yusuf killed him, and they hated one another more than they had ever loved anything in the world. Not even when that hate turned to curiosity, to friendship, and eventually, to love.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Yusuf always brought out the parts of Nicky that were alive, passionate. He knows he is not like his heart in expressing such things; Nicolò di Genova’s love is a quiet, inexorable thing. It is as reliable and relentless as the tides. And it is passionate, even if many miss this truth in the gentle smiles and twinkling eyes that Nicky is—was—may be again—known for.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nicky has never been cold in the way he is cold now; but then, Nicky has had Joe, for 900 years, to keep him warm.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Right now he is crushingly alone.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Go away, Sebastien.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Booker hesitates for a moment before he does as told, making his way slowly to the cottage and ducking inside.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>No one comes out. Nicky sits in the silence and breathes in the air of Wales that he once thought full of magic. It, like everything else, feels empty.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>He slides into Nile’s abandoned seat and turns to face Joe. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Destati,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>he whispers, and this time he means just what he says. He reaches out to touch Joe’s arm, and Joe springs to life beneath him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Joe snaps his neck and Nicky dies mid-thought, coming to and finishing it as he gasps air back into his lungs.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>He will never have minded dying less than if it can bring Joe some measure of peace.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Joe is sitting just as Nicky left him, staring down at his hands. They are back in his lap, and he turns them over and over, just… looking.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yusuf,” Nicky says quietly. “I’m here.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>He reaches out to touch Joe’s arm once more. This time, Joe does not attack. But he does not look at Nicky, either.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>It takes Nicky nearly an hour to coax Joe from the car and into the house. The foyer is dark and Nicky thinks maybe this is good—surely dark is better for Joe than the overwhelming brightness?</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>In truth, Nicky has no idea how to help Joe, and this hurts more than almost anything else. He finds a room, close enough to the kitchen of the cottage that he can hear the others moving around. Nicky is starving, ravenous, but he cannot bring himself to let go of Joe long enough to find food.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Instead, he gently coaxes Joe under the quilted blankets on the large bed and curls up on the other side. He forgoes the blankets for himself, not wanting to overwhelm Joe by accidentally curling around him in the night in case he falls asleep. He knows his body will seek Joe’s, as it always has.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>But Nicky does not sleep. He merely watches the shadows play across Joe’s face, where he lies with his eyes open and blank for a long while before he closes them. His breathing evens out, and he sleeps, and Nicky breathes in time with Joe not because he is relaxed or because he is tired but because it is the only way he can convince his body to take in air, by reminding it that Joe is doing so as well.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>As long as they are alive, and they are free, and they are together, they can heal.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>He </span>
  <em>
    <span>must </span>
  </em>
  <span>believe that.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>He must.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>A knock on the door in the early hours of the morning draws Nicky out of his thoughts. They are spiraling, anxious things. It seems that is the only way his brain knows how to think anymore.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>He looks up as the door opens just a crack, a figure peering in carefully. Nile.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>When her eyes meet his, she bumps the door open more with her hip and moves to set a tray of food on the end of the bed. Nicky sits to give her more space in which to set it down. “You need to eat,” she whispers, glancing anxiously at Joe. “So does he.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nicky is not so unobservant that he misses the strain in the furrow of her brow and the downturn of her mouth. If he were a better version of himself, he would not leave their newest member in charge of holding together these people she doesn’t even know.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>This is all he has left, though: hope that Joe will come back to him, and not much else to spare.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Thank you, Nile,” he says. He can offer that much.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Her smile, though it is tired, is lovely. “Of course. Let me know if you need anything.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How long are we staying here?” he asks before she can leave.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>She chews on her lip. “A couple of days. We can’t…” she glances at Joe. “We can’t stay long, but we can rest for a bit. Lie low.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nicky accepts this with no argument. He will leave her in charge because he cannot take charge, but he refuses to make this harder by arguing with her over details. “Thank you,” he says again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>She takes that for the dismissal it is, and she goes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nicky eats food before he tries to wake Yusuf. He cares more that Yusuf eats than that he consumes anything, but he needs to keep functioning for both of their sakes right now. The food, just toast with jam and eggs, tastes like cardboard to him. He wonders if that is because Nile is bad at cooking, or if he’s just that detached from everything going on.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>When he’s eaten as much as he can stomach—which is a loose qualifier, because his stomach is roiling already after half a slice of toast and a few bites of eggs—he moves the food tray on top of a dresser and contemplates waking Joe.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>After one minute passes and Nicky’s sluggish brain does not come up with any answers, he shrugs and simply reaches out to touch Joe’s shoulder.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Joe comes awake instantly, silently. His eyes look clearer than Nicky has seen them, and he freezes under Nicky’s touch. Is this better than him attacking Nicky?</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>He speaks and Nicky decides, no, not it is not. “Demon,” he accuses.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nicky blinks. Stares. Blinks again. He has not been called such by this man for almost a thousand years. “Yusuf?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You can’t be real.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nicky feels his heart crack as the realization comes to him, in pieces, what had finally broken Joe. What they did to break him—that somehow, they convinced him Nicky was dead.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Of course.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>The problem, of course, is that he doesn’t know how to fix this. He can’t think straight, can’t figure out if it’s better to divorce Joe from what he believes to be reality once more or not. Surely it’s better if he knows Nicky is alive, surely it’s better that he not think he’s being haunted or damned… and yet Nicky cannot escape from the fear that this makes him just as bad as </span>
  <em>
    <span>them.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Joe seems to take his silence as confirmation. He rolls over and closes his eyes once more, going back to sleep.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nicky stands by the bedside for a long while, not moving, barely daring to breathe.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I need help, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he thinks. But who is there to ask?</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>In the end, he simply climbs back into bed and goes to sleep as well. The problems will still be there in the morning—he hopes that he can meet them with greater clarity and conviction about what is the right thing to do.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nicky wakes in the morning with one clear thought. He must do his best to convince Joe that he is real, no matter the cost, because if their situations were reversed, Nicky would want to know the truth. More than want, he would </span>
  <em>
    <span>need </span>
  </em>
  <span>to know the truth. The idea of living in a world without his Yusuf is unimaginable; it lacks all joy and liveliness. He might regain a purpose, yes, but it would feel emptier. Incomplete.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>He wakes Joe with a hand on his arm. “I am not a demon,” he says. “Ask me any question a demon would not know and I will answer. Whatever I must do to convince you, I will do it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Yusuf blinks at Nicky, and it hurts to see how slow his thoughts are forming behind his eyes. Joe has long been quick-witted and sharp; to see this part of him dulled… it is unforgivable.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nicky thinks of the future for the first time since Joe broke, and what he thinks is: </span>
  <em>
    <span>I hope a part of the plan is to destroy the people who have done this, because I cannot rest until I have taken everything from them, burned down their world and salted the ashes.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Joe says, “Then you must be a dream.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nicky feels tears in his eyes. “No,” he promises. “I’m not a dream. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Sono qui.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>He reaches out, keeping his movements slow and making sure Joe’s eyes can track his hand’s movement as it nears Joe’s body. He reaches out and cups the side of Joe’s face and brushes a thumb over his cheek, uncaring of the crusted bloodstains smeared across Joe’s skin. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Sono qui. </span>
  </em>
  <span>You can feel me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Joe closes his eyes and leans, almost imperceptibly, into Nicky’s touch. “I can feel many things that are not real.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nicky allows his tears to fall; keeping them contained will do no one any good. Usually he has Joe to poke and prod until he lets out his emotions rather than bottling them up until the pressure cracks the seal, but Nicolò knows better than to bottle things up right now, when they are all so very fragile.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How can I help you?” It is not what Nicky means to say, but once the words are there between them, he doesn’t regret them.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Especially not when Joe replies, “Stay. You may be a dream, but you are a kind one.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nicky laughs, a sound like broken glass. “I will never leave you,” he promises. “Never again.” He doesn’t care what he has to do to make sure this promise is kept.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Joe smiles. Nicky knows that Joe does not believe him, </span>
  <em>
    <span>can</span>
  </em>
  <span> not believe him, not yet. He will simply have to repeat his promise, over and over, until Joe can.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>They have time.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nicky will fight anyone who tries to take any more of moments together. This time, he will not lose.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Sono qui,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>he repeats, like they are the only words he knows. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Sono qui.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Translations: </p>
<p>cuore mio - my heart<br/>destati - wake up<br/>per favore - please<br/>amore mio - my love</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Semester has begun and I got a new job, so I can't guarantee weekly updates, BUT I can say the next chapter is written already and I'm working on the fifth, so. Fingers crossed!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>
  <span>Nile finds a room upstairs to sleep in. She doesn’t really notice any details except that there’s a bed covered in a quilt that looks handmade. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When she wakes in the morning, she sees that the cottage they’re in is undeniably cute and she wonders just how Copley found this place and stocked it for them. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There was another room upstairs, but when she passes by the door is open and the bed is empty, perfectly made. Downstairs, Booker sits in an armchair and Andy is sprawled out on the couch. Neither of them says anything when Nile appears, but Booker gives her a brief nod. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Okay. Great. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Nile makes her way into the kitchen and decides that breakfast is a good start. The kitchen is decently stocked, but there’s not much Nile knows how to make well, so eggs and toast is what they’re getting. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She takes a tray to the other men--Nicky and Joe--who haven’t left the room they claimed last night. They also didn’t eat any kind of dinner, so Nile knows they </span>
  <em>
    <span>must </span>
  </em>
  <span>be hungry. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Nicky’s eyes are haunted and Joe sleeps through their brief conversation. Nile is… worried. About them, but also, and she kind of hates herself for this, about the way they’re so clearly a liability. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Fuck. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She considers, not for the first time, cutting her losses and running on her own. But she doesn’t think she’d get very far. She needs them. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>(And, although she doesn’t want to admit it even to herself, she doesn’t want to fail on her own merits. At least if they go down together, she never has to know if it was her fault.)</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When she takes plates to Booker and Andy, they stare at her like she has three heads. She rolls her eyes. “We all need to eat.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Thank you,” Booker says, his voice rough. He glances at Andy before taking a bite. As if realizing he’s starving--finally--he demolishes the rest of his plate in short order. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Andy picks at hers, nibbling more at the toast than the eggs. Whatever. Nile will take it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She retreats to the kitchen and the small table in there to eat her own food and contemplate just how </span>
  <em>
    <span>fucked </span>
  </em>
  <span>they all are. </span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Andy picks at the food on the plate before her, unappetizing through no fault of Nile’s. She feels nauseated, sleeplessness and injury causing her head to swim. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You should sleep.” Booker’s voice is rough; it’s not the first time he’s said this. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m fine.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“The bleeding stop?” he presses on, undeterred. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She wants to scream. She wants to snap at him that he doesn’t get to worry about her now, after everything. She doesn’t even bother opening her mouth, though, because she doesn’t know what will come out if she does. She just narrows her eyes at him and, because they know each other so well (and yet, a spiteful part of her points out, it still wasn’t well enough), he hears everything she would have said. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He settles back in his chair, empty plate on his knees. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She listens to Nile moving around in the kitchen and sighs. The girl tires her. She is so full of questions and determination, fueled by an energy that has not yet been broken by the world. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Andy sees a bit of all of them in this child, but that just makes her afraid. She can’t help her; first she failed Quynh, and then Booker, and now Nicky and Joe. If she doesn’t touch Nile, she can’t fail her; or, at least, that’s what she tells herself. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Nile does not appear to agree with this. She turns back up and takes a seat next to Andy on the couch, sitting sideways with her knees pulled up to her chest. “We should talk about what we’re doing next,” she says, glancing between Andy and Booker. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I should go,” Booker says. His voice is calm, but the veins around his eyes are pronounced the way they are when he’s emotional. Andy hates that she knows this man so well. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No,” Nile says, and Andy wants to shoot her. What gives her the right to make that choice? Before Andy can muster any energy to do something stupid, though, Nile continues speaking. “Those two are far from functional.” She points off toward the room where Joe and Nicky have been sequestered. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Andy hasn’t even checked on them. Would they even want to see her? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Yes, she knows. But can she bring herself to see them like this? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Probably not. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She speaks up. “I can help,” she tells Nile just to be contrary. Not contrary to Nile, who doesn’t know better, but to her gods-damned self. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re injured,” Nile tells her, voice firm and matter of fact. “If you don’t let someone disinfect your wounds, you’ll end up needing a hospital. And they’re stronger than me, better fighters.” She looks at Booker. “They don’t want you here. But they need you. Don’t you think you owe them that much?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He grits his teeth and holds her gaze. After long moments, he drops his chin in a nod. “Oui.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Good talk.” Nile stands. “We can stay a couple of days. Rest up.” She glances down at Andy, one brow raised in challenge. “You gonna let me check your wounds now, or…?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Andy would rather sink into this couch until she finally, blissfully perishes. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But she hasn’t given up for nearly seven thousand years. Somehow, she can’t seem to allow herself to give up now either. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She holds out a hand. “Help me up?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Nile takes it, no hesitation, grip firm. She pulls Andy to her feet, steadies her with another hand on her shoulder. “Thank you.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Andy can only sigh and nod. “Back at you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She follows Nile out of the room, the weight of Booker’s gaze resting heavily on her as she leaves. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She wants to go somewhere none of them will ever find her and live out the rest of her days in peace. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Vietnam, maybe. She could find peace there, or something as close to it as she’s ever known. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She strips out of her shirt but can’t get her bra with the injuries to her left shoulder and side. Oh, and the bruised ribs. She’s not used to those sticking around, but she can tell they’re not broken--small mercies. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She looks in the mirror to see a battered form and bares her teeth just to remember that she’s still deadly. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Shower first,” Nile tells her, turning on the water and testing it with her hand, adjusting the tap for a few moments before backing away. “Do you want me to stay in case you need help?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Andy has no shame in her body, so she takes a moment to consider the offer. She has more shame in accepting help, but she cannot afford to become a liability. “Help me undress?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Nile makes quick work of the rest of Andy’s clothes, stripping her efficiently and impersonally. Andy wonders if this is due to a lack of attraction or her own battered state. Then she remembers she doesn’t fucking care. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She steps into the shower and hisses as the water, temperature just this side of warm, hits her sore shoulders and back. It hurts, but Andy grounds herself in the pain, allowing it to clear her head from its foggy state. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She takes stock. Injured, but not so incapacitated that she couldn’t fight. She holds a hand out of the shower where Nile waits in the bathroom. “Soap?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A bar is pressed into her palm and she withdraws it, washing carefully. She can get her front with a little bit of lost breaths to the pain in her ribs. Her back is another matter. She wonders, for a moment, if she’s so proud that she’s really going to try anyway. Then, with a sigh, she calls out, “Can you clean off my back?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The clips holding the shower curtain in place rattle as it is pulled aside, Nile reaching out for the soap. Andy hands it over once more and turns obligingly. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The soap stings and Andy, conversely, relaxes into the sensation. Or maybe the touch? She hasn’t felt a gentle touch in months, not since before Merrick Pharmaceuticals. She’s never thought of herself as particularly touch-starved, but if anything was going to bring forward a desire for touch, it might be months of being picked apart and treated as something inhuman. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Under Nile’s hands, Andy feels like a person for the first time in recent memory. She wonders if this is what salvation feels like, like something unforgivable. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Rinse,” Nile prompts, and Andy turns to let the water wash away the soap and any remaining grime. “You done?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Andy turns the tap off in response, standing there dripping until Nile offers her a towel. Even the soft fabric grates against her skin and she dries quickly, perfunctory, before taking a seat on the closed lid of the toilet bowl. “Patch me up?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Nile finds a first aid kid under the skin. “I can go out and get better supplies,” she offers after poking around. “But we’ll make do for now.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Andy frowns. “No. We should go out as little as possible. We’re too close still.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We’re going to need food eventually, too.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“There’s soup in the cupboards.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Nile sighs, sounding frustrated. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Good, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Andy thinks viciously. She doesn’t have enough energy to sustain it, but it feels blissful for a moment, chasing away the pain and weariness like a lightning bolt, one flash of there and gone again. “We’ll attract attention if you’re bleeding when we make our next move.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’ll wear black.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Nile places a large square of gauze over a wound on Andy’s side where she thinks she might have been shot, but it’s just a graze. It’s already scabbed over and mostly bloodless otherwise. “Fine. Whatever. It’s your life.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That, more than anything, hits Andy. It </span>
  <em>
    <span>is </span>
  </em>
  <span>her life--her limited time that remains--but her life hasn’t been about </span>
  <em>
    <span>just </span>
  </em>
  <span>her in so long. It’s been about her family. About making a difference, making things better. About protecting people, those close to her but also anyone who needed help. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She’s always intended to leave things better than she found them. Right now, she’s not doing a very good job. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Send Booker,” she says finally. “He knows how to be discreet.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Nile’s shoulders relax. “Alright,” she agrees. “I’ll stitch you up once he gets what we need. These will do for now if you don’t strain the wounds.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Andy catches Nile’s hand as she pulls it away. “Thank you,” she says, squeezing gently before releasing her. “For all of this. We’ve been difficult. I’m not saying that’s going to change, but…”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Nile shrugs. “You all were trying to rescue me, right?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes.” It feels like a lifetime ago. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Fair’s fair.” There’s a steel in Nile’s eyes that says she believes this. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Life isn’t fair.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No, it isn’t,” she agrees. “Doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try to make it better when we can.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Andy laughs, barely more than a puff of exhaustion. “You sound like Nicky.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Do I?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You do. I hope you get to see that side of him.” </span>
  <em>
    <span>I hope it comes back, </span>
  </em>
  <span>she doesn’t say. She can’t fathom a world where Nicky doesn’t believe in doing the right thing above all else. She doesn’t want to live her last years in it. “Clothes?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Nile stands, rising easily from her crouch. “I’ll be right back with some.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Andy steels herself even more as she waits. She’s done worse things, scarier things, </span>
  <em>
    <span>harder </span>
  </em>
  <span>things. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>(That’s not a lie. The hardest thing she’s ever done was fight for her freedom when Quynh was being dragged away from her and </span>
  <em>
    <span>lose. </span>
  </em>
  <span>But this will be a close second, seeing what is left behind of the men she has cherished and protected for centuries.)</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Nile returns with a soft gray shirt and some sweatpants. Andy slips them on, wincing at the tug to her ribs, allowing it when Nile helps her ease the shirt over her head. “Go talk with Booker,” she says. “I’ll be right out.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She goes to the close door of the downstairs bedroom. She knocks. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When there is no answer, she pushes it open and makes her way inside. </span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Joe does not startle at the noise that breaks into the quiet. This house makes many sounds if one knows how to listen for them. There is the rustle of the leaves on the trees outside the window as the wind dances through them. There is the sound of others moving around, the creak of wood and the whistle of wind down a chimney. There is the groan of pipes when water is turned on. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There is the quiet, even breathing of the demon-angel-dream next to him. Asleep. Do dreams sleep? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Hallucination, maybe. Joe is under no illusions; he knows that he does not know anything, least of all what is real. All he knows is that </span>
  <em>
    <span>this </span>
  </em>
  <span>cannot be reality, because his love is dead. But this imposter is a perfect replica, down to the expressions on his face and the intonation of his voice. There is a mole on his cheek and Joe aches to touch it but can’t, because what if his hand passes through air? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>No. If his broken mind has gifted him this dream, this unreality, he will not ask for more than he is given lest it be taken away once more. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The door opens and another angel-demon-dream appears. “Boss,” Joe says, because it is less personal than </span>
  <em>
    <span>Andromache </span>
  </em>
  <span>or </span>
  <em>
    <span>sister </span>
  </em>
  <span>would be. Those are for the living; Joe cannot gift them to whatever shades his mind has conjured. To do so would be an insult to the person to whom those titles belonged. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She grimaces and nods. “Joe.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He almost smiles, but he can’t remember how. “You’re dead,” he tells her, just in case she doesn’t know. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Not quite,” she counters, a small smile on her face. She glances at the being who looks like Nicky. “How is he?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Joe shrugs. “As fine as you are,” he replies, because if they’re both figments of his imagination, that much must be the truth. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Andy snorts. “Right. Okay. Have you eaten?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She picks up a plate on a dresser and holds it out. “Eat.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Why?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He shrugs. “It’s yellow.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“So?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“So I can’t.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She looks like she’s contemplating smashing the plate over his head. She is almost as lovely of a dream as the unreal Nicolò. “Please, Joe.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And this is how he knows she is not real. Andromache would not plead with him over something so inconsequential as food. “No.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She sighs and sets the plate aside. “Fine. Just… fine.” She runs a hand through her hair, wincing as she does but following the motion through. “If you can, send Nicky to speak with me when he wakes up?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Joe shrugs. “Alright.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She closes her eyes for a moment. “Okay. I…” She trails off and shakes her head. “Whatever.” She turns and leaves, the door barely making a sound as she closes it behind herself. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Joe hums a quiet noise just to hear the sound. There are so many sounds right now surrounding him, best of all a sound he could mistake as the </span>
  <em>
    <span>real </span>
  </em>
  <span>Nicolò’s breathing if he allowed himself to. But he is too used to this now, making sounds just to have a distraction. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It soothes something in him to make a noise and not have anything happen in response. He is still capable of that much. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He lays down and closes his eyes. The sunlight barely peeks through the curtains, but it lights up a world with too much color for Yusuf’s aching head. This way, he can listen and drift in the blackness that has become a second home, a change from </span>
  <em>
    <span>white </span>
  </em>
  <span>and </span>
  <em>
    <span>bright </span>
  </em>
  <span>and </span>
  <em>
    <span>nothing, nothing, there’s nothing--</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He hums again. Calms. Drifts. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He hears when not-Nicolò’s breathing changes, quickening. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Destati,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Yusuf whispers, wondering why it sounds familiar. Nicolò’s language is always familiar, of course, even more so than his first nowadays, but this echoes in his head like something he heard recently. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He can’t remember. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There is so much he can’t remember anymore, not since the color and life was leached out of his world. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Destati,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>he whispers again, tasting the word on his tongue. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He hears the breathing change once more, still unsteady but not as quick. “Joe?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Here,” he promises his beautiful dream. He feels fingertips press against his cheek and shudders under the touch. It pulls away quickly and he feels bereft, but this is better. He will not have to miss it when it is gone again if he does not have it now. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Are you sleeping? Did I wake you?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No,” he assures the dream of his love. “Colors are loud.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His dream says nothing for a long time. Then, “Okay. Keep your eyes closed. Should I stop talking?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No,” he quickly answers, his response almost cutting off the end of not-Nicolò’s question. “Speak.” </span>
  <em>
    <span>So I know I am not alone, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he almost says, but he </span>
  <em>
    <span>is </span>
  </em>
  <span>alone. He knows this. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But he likes to have the choice to pretend. That this is real. That they are safe. That he has not lost all that made life worth living. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“SÌ,” Nicky replies easily. “I can talk.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He does. He fills the silence with meaningless words. Or, not meaningless: he talks of their past, of memories Joe can barely access but that must be buried deep within him, or else how would his dreams be able to speak of them? He talks of the beginning, when they met--</span>
  <em>
    <span>I thought you were the most beautiful devil I had ever seen. I was almost right, because you are the most beautiful man I have ever seen, but closer to an angel than any mortal has a right to be--</span>
  </em>
  <span>and Joe thinks Nicky is poetic, too, before he remembers that this is a dream. He is dreaming. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He knows Nicky can be poetic but saves it for moments like this, just between the two of them. But any poetry must be his own mind conjuring pretty words to distract him from his eternal torment. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Maybe I am a devil, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Joe thinks, </span>
  <em>
    <span>because why else would I be in hell? </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He does not ask. He listens, and he drifts. Nicky talks until his voice is hoarse, and then he keeps talking until Joe quietly tells him to stop. He does not know how strict his mind will be in making these figments follow the laws of reality. He does not want this shade of Nicolò to lose his voice and be unable to tell him more stories. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Thank you.” He does not call Nicky </span>
  <em>
    <span>habibi </span>
  </em>
  <span>or </span>
  <em>
    <span>cuore mio </span>
  </em>
  <span>for the same reason he doesn't call the fake Andromache by the real woman’s name. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Anything,” not-Nicolò says with the fervency of a prayer. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Shh,” Joe chides half-heartedly. And, huh, he does remember how to smile. “Oh. Andy wants to speak with you.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Nicky takes in a sharp breath. “Will you be alright here alone?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>No. </span>
  </em>
  <span>But then, he will not be alright either way. If this is how he loses his shades, so be it. “Yes.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Alright.” Not-Nicolò sounds dubious. The bed shifts as he stands anyway and makes his way to the door. “I won’t be long.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Okay,” Joe says, and he pretends to believe Nicky. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t open his eyes to watch him walk away. He never got to say goodbye to </span>
  <em>
    <span>his </span>
  </em>
  <span>Nicolò, after all. That is another thing the shades do not get from him, no matter how wonderful a relief their presence is. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He thinks it, though, because he is just a man. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Goodbye. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He listens to the sounds of the house, drifts, and waits to wake up back in the white room once more.</span>
</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Getting into busy days, but I'll have the next update as soon as I can!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>
  <span>Nicky finds Andy in the living room, sitting on the couch and glaring down at a glass of water like she can turn it to wine--or, more likely, vodka--through the power of her gaze. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Booker is in the room as well, brooding in a corner. Nicky feels even more exhausted at the sight of him; he can’t even sustain the energy to be angry. It will return, he is sure (okay, he </span>
  <em>
    <span>hopes), </span>
  </em>
  <span>when things are better. But for now…</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You wanted to talk?” Nicky prompts. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Andy nods, but her gaze slants to Booker. “I’ll go…” he trails off. “Upstairs?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Go,” Andy agrees, and as if that was all he was waiting for, he does. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“One moment,” Nicky says, hearing noise from the kitchen. He ducks his head in to see Nile heating up soup. “Can I ask a favor? Or are you busy?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She shrugs and turns the dial on the stove down to its lowest setting. “Not too busy. What do you need?” Her words are brusque but her eyes are kind as she faces him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Can you go sit with Joe? I don’t like leaving him alone.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Nile hesitates but then nods. “Yeah, I can do that,” she agrees. When she passes him by, she reaches out--telegraphing the movement clearly--and squeezes his shoulder gently when he does not flinch away. “Try not to be too long?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He wants to be offended, but he cannot. The day before was harrowing for them all, and she has hardly seen the best of Joe. “I promise.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She heads in the direction of the bedroom and Nicky returns to Andy, taking Booker’s abandoned seat. It’s still warm when Nicky sinks into it, and he hates that anything Booker has been responsible for is providing him comfort. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It is a petty thought, but he reserves the right to be petty. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What is it?” he asks, trying to banish the thoughts. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Andy sighs. “How is he? You’ve spent more time with him.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He hums, deliberates what to share and what to keep secret. Her eyes narrow as if she knows exactly what Nicky is doing, but Andy will never be owed all that passes between him and Joe. He is allowed to take time to figure out what of this can be kept private, and what must be shared. “Tell me your observations first. You spoke with him?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She sighs. “Yes. For a given definition of speaking.” She looks angry, perturbed. “He has no grasp on reality.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No,” Nicky agrees. “He does not. He thinks I am dead. You as well. He thinks this is all a dream.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You need to tell him--” Andy starts. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Nicky cuts her off, voice still quiet but with an icy harshness now. “Do you think I have not tried? That I would leave him to believe terrible things while I still draw breath to correct those thoughts?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She closes her eyes. “No,” she admits. “I know. But I don’t… This is one thing I don’t know how to fix. I don’t know if it can be fixed.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Nicky draws in a breath, slowly, through his nose. He exhales from between his teeth. “I will not leave him.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No,” Andy agrees. Her eyes open once more, fixed on him with a steady surety that he has always relied on. “I would never ask you to.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It hurts to know that they asked her to leave Quynh. It was not the same, </span>
  <em>
    <span>is </span>
  </em>
  <span>not the same, but in so many ways… “I will do anything for him,” he tells her. “Anything, Andromache.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“How is he?” she asks again. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“As you said. But better since yesterday all the same. He has not forgotten who I am, even if he does not believe me to be real. He has not tried to hurt me since last night. He has not forgotten himself.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We can’t rely on that,” she cautions. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It pains him to agree, but: “I know.” He does. “We cannot travel publicly. We cannot rely on him to stay stable. Just the light from behind the curtains over the windows overwhelms him, Andromache.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Okay,” she agrees. “We’ll figure something out. We always do.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Nicky wants to relax, to trust her in this. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He finds he can’t. But he agrees because he has no other choice. “Okay.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“How are you?” she asks before he can stand and go back to Joe. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I will be fine so long as I have him.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her gaze is disbelieving and wry when she shrugs at him. “Will you?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He narrows his gaze at her. “If he needs me, I will be.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Although she studies him for moments longer, her expression clears. “Good. Try to figure out what he’ll eat. He says eggs are a no-go because they’re yellow.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Nicky closes his eyes and sighs. “Alright. Thank you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Of course. I’m right here if you need anything.” She gestures at her side and shrugs. “Can’t go far anyway. Nile will yell if I pull my stitches.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He freezes. He hadn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>forgotten </span>
  </em>
  <span>what he’d learned of her new mortality, but it hits him anew in this moment. “I might have to yell too,” he says after a beat too long. “Please spare me from discovering if I have that in me.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’ll try.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s the best promise he can expect from her. He spares the effort to press a kiss to her head as he rounds the couch. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Ti amo,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>he murmurs. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“And you.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When Nicky sends her to look after Joe, Nile is a little afraid. She’s not scared of much, but these people are objectively terrifying at their best. She can’t even begin to wonder what might happen when one of them is clearly unhinged, because then she might not have the courage to enter the room. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When she knocks and pushes the door open, though, he turns his face toward her. His eyes open, just narrow slits. “Oh. It’s you.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m Nile,” she tells him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Joe,” he replies, eyes falling shut once more. “I didn’t expect to dream you. I haven’t dreamt of you in a long time.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She slips into the room and shuts the door behind her. She doesn’t want to sit on the bed, but there’s a chair in the corner that she perches on instead. She sits right on the edge of the seat, feet braced against the floor and arms braced against her knees. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m not a dream?” she offers hesitantly. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“They all say that,” he agrees. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She is so out of her depth here. “Uh… okay.” She glances around the room and her eyes light on the half eaten food from breakfast. She wonders if soup for dinner will go down any better. “Are you hungry?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He smiles. Somehow that makes what he says </span>
  <em>
    <span>worse.</span>
  </em>
  <span> “Eating is unnecessary.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She can’t help the noise of disbelief that emerges from her throat unbidden. “Um, eating is like… key. Almost nothing is </span>
  <em>
    <span>more </span>
  </em>
  <span>necessary.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I won’t die,” he tells her. Confides it, like it’s a secret they don’t all know. “And I don’t like it.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She wonders if he means that he doesn’t like to eat, or that he doesn’t like not being able to die. She very pointedly decides not to ask. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Do you like vegetable soup?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He seems to think, his brow furrowed a little deeper as she waits for an answer. “My </span>
  <span>Nicolò made good soup.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well, this is from a can,” she offers hesitantly. “Will you try it? For me?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He opens his eyes again, just narrow slits. “You ask a lot of questions.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She laughs a little. “Yeah. That’s a thing. Always have.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I wish I had known you.” His eyes fall shut once more. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Nothing else she says prompts a response from him. She gives up after a couple of attempts, unwilling to push him. It’s a relief when the door opens and Nicky appears. His eyes go to Joe first, drinking in the sight of him for long moments before he pulls his gaze away and over to Nile. “Thank you.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Uh, sure,” she replies, uncomfortable with the weight of his gratitude. She can’t say “</span>
  <em>
    <span>my pleasure” </span>
  </em>
  <span>because it sure wasn’t, and she doesn’t want to say “</span>
  <em>
    <span>anytime” </span>
  </em>
  <span>and risk him asking this of her again, but… It wasn’t that bad. Uncomfortable, yeah, but that’s been this whole new life for her, this whole immortal experience. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Keeping an eye on Joe is nowhere near as bad as being tortured by sadistic scientists, so--in perspective, it’s all fine. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m going to go finish dinner. I’ll bring some to you both when it’s done.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She doesn’t wait to hear him say </span>
  <em>
    <span>thank you </span>
  </em>
  <span>again, just slips out of the room, shutting the door with a quiet click behind her. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She escapes back to the kitchen and slumps against the counter. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Fuck. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Copley’s instructions say they need to leave in two more days at most. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They’re so screwed. </span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Booker found a room upstairs that was unclaimed--he could tell which one Nile had chosen by the messed up sheets on the bed, which made him smile a little--but the second room was empty, untouched, and quiet. He closed the door behind him and the stillness made him feel conversely energized, restless and jittery. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He sits on the edge of the bed and puts his head in his hands. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Closing his eyes doesn’t help; he can still see the betrayal reflected in Andy’s eyes, can hear the cool dismissal in Nicky’s voice. He can see Joe, screaming at nothing and everything, before Andy put a bullet in his head because they didn’t have any other choice. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He can see the distrust in Nile’s gaze and know things could have, would have, been so different if only…</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Well. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>If only. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He has many regrets. This is nothing new, but the new additions make the weight that much harder to carry. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He contemplates slipping away into the night, but he knows better. He owes them their safety, their freedom. He is only one man, but he needs to keep himself together in order to give them every chance at staying safe. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He kicks off his boots and lays on the bed, still on top of the blankets, curling into an S shape instead of sprawling like he would normally prefer. He feels like pieces of him will fall apart if he doesn’t hold himself together--illogical, and yet. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He shakes, just a little. He hasn’t had a drink in too long and his body knows it. Fuck. Now isn’t the time for this. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He contemplates blowing his brains out just so he’ll heal up like new, but he doesn’t want to scare Nile or startle Joe. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’ll deal with it after he sleeps. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It takes longer than he would like for his mind to quiet, of course, and allow him the sleep he desperately needs. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When it comes, it is full of nightmares, drowning and screaming and rage. </span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Andy joins Nile in the kitchen as she watches the soup heat up, waiting for it to bubble. Nile doesn’t hear the other woman enter the room, and startles when she speaks: “Do you know how to bake bread?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Nile whips around and glares, but the glare lessens as the words process. Andy has shown little interest in her so far, speaking only when spoken to and even then rarely. Even this strange, innocuous question means </span>
  <em>
    <span>something. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Nile’s no fool; she knows that Andy is in charge. She’d been trapped with Andy and Booker long enough to see how they interacted, after all, and exactly who deferred to whom. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Boss,” he’d called her a few times. He’d stopped quickly when she snapped at him every time he slipped up. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It didn’t exactly hurt Nile to know that Andy had no interest in her. It simply was. Nile had put her faith where she shouldn’t; Booker had betrayed them; Joe was tortured until he lost touch with reality; something close to feral lurked in Nicky’s eyes, and Nile didn’t know what was holding it back; and Andy had no interest in Nile. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Not in her history, or her family, or even her immortality. It was as if when her own mortality left her, so did her responsibility to care for anyone new. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Until now. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Maybe. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Uh, no,” Nile answers hesitantly after too long of a pause. “Why?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I can teach you.” Andy goes over to the cabinets and pulls out flour and activated yeast packets. “I think Joe might eat it.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“...sure,” Nile agreed after another lengthy pause. She wanted to ask, </span>
  <em>
    <span>why are you teaching me? </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As if hearing the unasked question, Andy spares Nile a glance and says, “It’s a good skill to have. And I can’t knead the bread without pulling my stitches.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There it was, the practical reason. Still, this was Andy showing any interest in acknowledging Nile’s presence. Even if it was for a practical purpose, Nile could admit she wanted to establish a connection enough that she didn’t really mind. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I would be pretty pissed if you pulled the stitches,” she agreed. “Especially after sending Booker out to get the supplies.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Exactly.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When the soup is hot enough, Nile sets it to a low heat so it can continue simmering. By then, Andy has created a dough. “Shouldn’t you have taught me how to make that?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That’s what recipes are for. You know how to Google.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Nile rolls her eyes, exasperated. “Might as well use Youtube to learn the rest then.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Andy shrugs. “You could.” She doesn’t move to leave, though. Instead, she walks Nile through the process of kneading, the first good exercise Nile’s had in too long. She has to take breaks, muscles still weak, but it feels good to be doing </span>
  <em>
    <span>something </span>
  </em>
  <span>after so long strapped down and helpless. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Now it rises,” Andy tells her, scooping the dough back into the bowl and covering it with a cloth. “Give it an hour.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Nile nods. She portions out soup into three bowls, passing one to Andy. “Don’t burn yourself. You’ll find burnt tongues are annoying when they don’t immediately heal.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Andy looks almost amused at the idea. Nile’s half worried she’s going to burn her tongue on purpose now just to experience it. “You have plenty of time for that in the future,” Nile promises. “For now, eat the damn soup.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Andy shrugs and moves to sit at the small table, but she blows on each spoonful before lifting it to her mouth, so Nile takes the win. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She sets her own bowl down across from Andy’s seat, but moves to take the third to Nicky and Joe. She doesn’t have much hope that Joe will eat the soup, but she figures if he wants it, Nicky can get a second bowl later.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Joe is either still asleep or pretending when she peeks her head in. Nicky is sitting in bed, staring at the wall blankly. He doesn’t seem to notice her at all until she crosses his line of sight, and then he focuses on her abruptly. His gaze is intense, focused. It sends warning signals pinging in her brain, danger senses tingling. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Food,” she tells him. She holds out the bowl and a spoon. “There’s more on the stove. Andy and I are making bread, but that’s a process apparently.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He nods, but she can’t tell if it’s a gesture of acceptance or agreement. Either way, he takes the soup and holds it on his lap, hands cupped around the bowl as if to keep them warm. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She waits a few moments, but he doesn’t say anything, so she turns and flees. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Nile likes Nicky well enough, but both men scare her more than she’d be willing to admit aloud. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Andy has finished her soup by the time Nile returns to the kitchen--and so definitely burned her tongue, the asshole--but is still sitting at the table. She watches Nile impassively as Nile begins to eat. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Nile is unsure where to look. At Andy? Away? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You were US armed forces. What branch?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Nile almost chokes on a mushy cooked carrot. Well, she had wanted Andy’s interest… “I’m a Marine.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Andy nods slowly. “Still?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Always,” Nile replies, a little affronted. That’s the whole </span>
  <em>
    <span>thing. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Once a Marine, always a Marine. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“After what they did to you?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A chill runs through Nile. Suddenly, she’s not hungry anymore. She pushes the mostly-untouched soup away from her and crosses her arms. “Yes,” she answers defiantly. She’s not sure she actually believes it, but she clings to this conviction like she’d clung to sanity under the bright fluorescent lights that never dimmed in the lab. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Your family?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“They think I’m dead.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That’s not what I asked.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Nile bites back the urge to point out Andy hadn’t asked for anything specific. They both know Nile knew what she meant. “My dad was a Marine. KIA. Mom raised me and my brother.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Nile can see Andy filing this information away in her brain. She waits for a comment, or another insensitive question, but all Andy says is, “You come from warriors.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Nile agrees, relaxing fractionally. “I do.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“So do I.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Nile thinks about asking. But she’s afraid of the answer. She doesn’t want to know how long Andy has been alive. She can see in the weariness of her eyes, deeper than in any of the others’, that it’s been too long. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Nile prefers to believe she won’t live anything approaching (or surpassing) what she might conceptualize as “forever.” Andy’s answer is likely to take that away from her, and Nile has already lost so much. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>This faith, that she might not be forced to </span>
  <em>
    <span>endure </span>
  </em>
  <span>for eons, she will cling to just as she clings to her identity as a Marine, an American, a millennial. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Is the bread ready?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Not yet.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Nile sighs. “Should we wake Booker or let him sleep?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Andy’s eyes narrow and her lip curls down in a silent snarl. “Leave him. He’ll sort himself out.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Nile doesn’t like Booker, but she doesn’t hate him the way Andy does. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Andy must have loved him once, she thinks, to hate him this much now. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She wonders how Booker could possibly have betrayed that kind of love. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Right.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>With nothing better to do--and Nile misses phones </span>
  <em>
    <span>so much, </span>
  </em>
  <span>misses mindless apps to wile away the time--she just lets her mind drift, trying not to get caught on any thought for too long. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>By the time the bread is done rising, she’s almost calm. It’s a welcome feeling. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>In the oven, it smells even better. Nile relaxes into the couch, head leaning back and tipped toward the kitchen so she can bask in the scent of fresh bread. “This was a good idea.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I have those sometimes,” Andy replies, tone wry. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Feel free to have more.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Nile didn’t mean anything by it, but when Andy responds, “I’ll try,” she does feel a little bit of relief. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Carrying this group of broken people she doesn’t know is a lot of work. She’ll take any help she can get. </span>
</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Translations: </p>
<p>Sorella - Sister<br/>Non farlo - Do not</p></blockquote></div></div>
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